


the sky looks pissed (the wind talks back)

by thimble



Category: James Bond (Movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-06
Updated: 2012-11-06
Packaged: 2017-11-18 02:05:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/555686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thimble/pseuds/thimble
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When James Bond dies, the Quartermaster doesn't cry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the sky looks pissed (the wind talks back)

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Небо выглядит хмурым](https://archiveofourown.org/works/916265) by [arisu_aiko](https://archiveofourown.org/users/arisu_aiko/pseuds/arisu_aiko)



When James Bond dies, the Quartermaster doesn't cry.

He listens as the voice on the speaker turns into static. His screen tells him the building has exploded into flames, with 007 on the 34th floor. Logic knows that it was impossible to have gotten out, to safety, before the bomb wiped out an entire block.

Everyone in Q branch is wrecked in silent disbelief. He turns around to face them, his gaze level, impenetrable.

"Send a recon team to the site to find the remains." He turns away again, typing as if nothing happened. "Quickly, before local reinforcements get to it first."

They follow his orders, and his demeanor. Men twice his age scramble to meet his every demand, but he doesn't give it much notice.

Two weeks later, after tirelessly sifting through rubble, they find a man of 007's height and build, but all his teeth have caved in, all DNA destroyed. It's enough to rule him dead, but Q tells them to wait.

They do. Someone steals the charred corpse in the meantime, and even Q can't find the thief. A theory goes around that his enemies have taken it to play with. 

Q doesn't feel guilty at all.

A month goes by; 007 doesn't come back. Now his file says, in bold red, 'DECEASED.'

Q goes to the funeral. It's a remarkably sunny day, and he sweats under the suit. It's all black, modest, loose in places. Not something 007 would have worn. He leaves the eulogies to people who knew 007 a little less than he did.

An empty casket is lowered into the ground, into a spot reserved specifically for him. Q looks at a spot of dirt on his shoe.

When everyone has left, he stands on the freshly piled earth, in front of the tombstone. It was plain, and says nothing significant about the man who left behind those words.

He walks home after a half hour, the suit jacket draped over his arm, his shirt almost transparent from dampness. He stops by a convenience store to buy a cold Pepsi.

Life goes on. He's assigned other agents to monitor, and hears different voices on the speaker. He saves the Queen many times, though he's never given credit in the papers, isn't slotted for interviews on talk shows. 

Someone else refills the mug he sips on everyday. It never goes lukewarm or dry.

Eleven months pass. He's given cardigans for his birthday, as if that's all anyone could think of getting him. Several mugs too, though they go unused in his cupboard, gathering dust. Sometimes he pops them into the dishwasher, feeling like he owed it to the people who bought them. He drops his glasses and another employee accidentally steps on them, apologizing profusely. He waves it off, gets fitted for a new pair.

He thinks of getting a cat, and decides to spare the poor creature, since he spends more time at headquarters than at home. They're solitary animals, but that doesn't mean they don't ever get lonely.

He serves his country. He makes sure every agent on his watch comes back alive. They never thank him, but he doesn't need them to.

Every two weeks he goes to where 007 is (not) buried, and stands on the grave. There's grass on it now, and no one ever leaves any flowers. He stares at the engraved name for long periods of time, as if expecting it to talk. He's tired of always being the one to talk first.

He doesn't know why he keeps coming back. He knows there isn't a body, that there aren't even bones rotting under his feet. That doesn't stop him, though.

He saves the Queen, again. 

On one of his nights off he lets a man fuck him into a mattress, and he wakes up next to rumpled sheets. He's a little sore, he knows that will sate him for at least several more months. He pulls on a dressing gown and walks barefoot into the kitchen.

007 is sitting at the table, and he looks the same as the last time Q saw him, albeit with a deep tan. Q thinks it looks ridiculous, orange, contrasts too starkly with his eyes.

He regards him coolly for a moment, and heads straight for the kettle. It's not until he's poured a cup and sat down that he looks at 007 again. He has the decency to look at least a little ashamed.

"Q," he says. That's all he says. They stare at each other; Q forgets his manners, and doesn't ask if he'd like a cup too.

007 clears his throat. "Those aren't pajamas."

"I know."

Q doesn't speak for another moment; he's in no hurry. He blows on the top of his tea so he doesn't burn his tongue. 007 can't seem to sit still. Q wants to hit him, or kiss him, though the latter comes as a surprise.

 _What took you so long?_ he could ask, though something tells him it's not the right thing to say. _I think I missed you._

Finally, he settles for something he's sure of, something true.

"I told them not to sell your flat, this time."

**Author's Note:**

> Title from 'The Chain' by Ingrid Michaelson.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] the sky looks pissed (the wind talks back)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1010094) by [MokuK](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MokuK/pseuds/MokuK)




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